


that will be ere the set of sun

by rathxritter



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-07 17:10:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20979443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rathxritter/pseuds/rathxritter
Summary: In 1913 Leopold James Fitz marries Jemma Anne Simmons. Six years on they realize that there's something between them that wasn't there before.[or]Nuair a bhuannaich na Gàidheil Èirinn, chaidh na sìthichean dhan t-Saoghal Shìos.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It was either this or a story about the haunted phone booth in Station Road ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> Unbeta'd.

A thaobh nan seann fhionn-sgeul pàganach a bh’ aig na Gàidheil, bha treubhan a’ fanachd mar-thà ann an Èireann nuair a thàinig na Gàidheil. 'S iad na Tuatha Dé Danann is na Fomoirich, daoine-sìthe leis an robh aca ri sabaid mus d’fhuair iad an eilean. Nuair a bhuannaich na Gàidheil Èirinn, chaidh na sìthichean dhan t-Saoghal Shìos. Ged-tà, bhiodh am brat eadar an dà Shaoghal a’ fàs tana aig deireadh an t-samhraidh is anns a’ chiad là den t-Samhain bhiodh na sìthichean a’ ruith air feadh an àite, agus na cumhachdan draoidheil air fàs.

'S urrainn do sìthiche dealbh sa m bith fhaighinn le comas sònraichte ainmichte draoidheachd agus 's urrainn dhaibh dealbh a' chuirp atharrachadh no àrdachadh a fhalach gnèthean sìtheile às na sùilean nan duine bàsmhor. Bha aon creideamh seasmhach gun robh na daoine-sìdh fann an aghaidh iarann fuar.

An island inhabited by inhuman creatures: the Tuatha Dé Danann and the Fomoirich. The first ones, the folk of the goddess Danu, a pantheon of gods associated with nature or kings, queens and heroes of the distant past with supernatural powers. The second, a supernatural race of undersea ones or underground giants, the harmful and destructive powers of nature, defeated in the battle of Mag Tuired.

And then the Gaels arrived there and fought a battle against both Tuatha Dé Danann and Fomoirich.

The battle was won by the Gaels and allowed them to conquer Ireland and send all the fairies and subnatural creates to an t-Saoghal Shìos, the Otherworld - the real of deities and the dead, a realm of everlasting youth, beauty, health, abundance and joy.

Some of those subnatural beings live there.

Some live under mounds, fairy raths and cairns.

Some are reported on an island to the West of Ireland: Tir na nOg.

Some say that they’re fairies, aos sí or sìthiche.

Some say that they are remnants of pagan gods and nature spirits.

Whatever they are, they interact with humans and the human world. They are allowed to run wild as their magical powers grow in strength and they must be propitiated to ensure the survival of people and their livestock.

Time can be liminal, characterized by ambiguity and disorientation, and therefore prone to hauntings by liminal beings, neither alive nor dead.

Samhain, Là Fhèill Brìghde, Là Bealltainn, agus Lùnastal. Moments when time finds itself between moments, periods or epochs, the boundaries between this world and the Otherworld fade, become weak and can easily be crossed by supernatural beings usually trapped on the other side.

Time can be an interesting and subjective thing: Omnis temporis non numero dierum sed noctium finiunt. Noctem dies subsequatur.

People who live here, descendants of the druids, define time not by the number of days, but by the number of nights. The day is seen as beginning at sunset and the year is divided into a light half and a dark one, the latter, characterized by the arrival of darkness, marks the beginning of the year.

Samhain marks the beginning of darkness and the beginning of life for the former always precedes light. It’s a time of gathering of all beings and a time of chaos that brings fertility as much as havoc. It’s also a time to take stock of herds and food supplies, time to choose which animals to slaughter for the winter.

Samhain, the end of the harvest and the beginning of winter.

’S e fèill a th' ann an Samhain a bhios air a chomharrachadh air oidhche an 31mh den Dàmhair.

Samhain, the first day of November, celebrated from 31 October to 1 November. It’s the beginning of the year and the beginning of winter, the dark half with the gestation of seeds already at work. It’s the moment of death as the first step in the renewal of life.

Bha a’ mhòr chuid de na geamaichean co-cheangailte ri fàidheadaireachd, agus gu h-àraid ri fàisneachdan gaol am measg nan daoine òga. 

Some say that Samhain is all about prophecy and love.

* * *

It’s night. Dark but not yet stormy.

It’s the beginning of a new day.

The plains are illuminated by silver moonlight and the sky is pitch black and studded with stars. Peaceful, relaxing and asleep.

The waves crash loudly against the wave-battered cliffs, honeycombed with caves and tunnels, and leave a trail of white lather in their wake as they hit the pebbled shore nearby. The sea seems to be alive, not only that, it looks as if it is angry with its never-ending movement. It looks as if it’s about to swallow the small island whole and sink it. As if the young man who waded into the water, the water up to his waist, failed under the attentive gaze of all the islanders to pour a cup of ale made with a pock of malt of every family on the island, and had therefore managed to irate Seonaidh - a water spirit in Lewis. As if Seonaidh himself had decided not to bestow his blessings on them, denying them the seaware to enrich their grounds.

The air is quiet, still, almost frozen: The lull before the storm. But in the distance, carrying music and chatter, the wind is starting to gain strength and intensity ever so slowly. There’s clouds too, moving closer, covering the sky as if darkness was the universe. As if something wicked is upon them.

The air smells of salt, a poignant smell that mixes with frosty undertones and the smell of the countryside and the isles. It’s a strong smell that permeates every house and room, every barn and clings to clothes.

It’s the smell of home, of nature and freedom.

It’s the smell of a foreign country, where things are done differently, less polluted and much, much richer.

Miles away, in the city, people go on with their lives unbothered and unaffected. That too, with the lonely cars and the crowded streets, is a different world. In the city, people do not recall that a fairy can acquire any image and can alter or enhance its body and therefore hiding its nature as a hideous species; They don’t recall about the iron and the spitting. There’s just memories of tales and pictures of something beautiful - alluring, glamorous and tantalizing.

But here, in the countryside, up north on an isolated island, people are used to animals leaping out into the road: Rabbits. Foxes. Pheasants. Deer. Sheep. Even the occasional cat. Here, when the open plains are covered in mist, hiding abandoned towers and medieval ruins, it’s easy to believe for there’s beauty that begets terror. Strangers believe it to be lovely and green, but the truth is that the countryside is tinged with red.

The countryside is a bloodbath and it remembers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbeta'd.

The bonfires on the hilltops are slowly burning themselves out: The flames are no longer blazing and raging, less similar to the sun. It's imitative and sympathetic magic that holds back decay and darkness for a little while longer, as it burns up and destroys all harmful influences. It's about the future, the beginning of a new year marked by fire and darkness alike that serve as protective and cleansing powers bound to aid people.

Next to the fire, like they do in Uachdar Thìre, there’s a ring of stones set by all the village inhabitants. There’s a rock for each person, set while the fire itself was being lit with force-fire, while those same people had run around with a torch and exulted. In the morning, they’ll be back to examine those stones and see if any of them have been mislaid during the night, curious and eager to know who would and who would not live out the year.

The sound of the breaking waves and the occasional seagull is carried inland from the ocean by wind that is quickly starting to gain strength. The rustling of waves, a low and crips sound, mixes with the voices of those children brave enough to go around in their old clothes or guise, walking down the old and gravel roads, knocking on every door and singing verses and asking for food or money in return. Then there’s older boys too, bhiodh na balaich òga air a’ Ghàidhealtachd, their voices loud and their hands dirty, who run around elated by the awareness of having managed to play multiple pranks - a leithid dùnadh nan similear aig taighean nan nàbaidhean, no a bhith a’ leagail crodh is eich saor a-mach às na stàballan, closing their neighbours' chimneys or letting both cattle and horses out of their barns and stables. A perfect rendition of malignant spirits, they enjoy the freedom that this night of the year grants them.

Carved turnips and mangel-wurzel carved with grotesque faces, hollowed out and used as lanterns, they’re the traditional illumination for guisers and pranksters and cast a faded dim light around, not enough to perfectly distinguish the well-known features of their home village. Silent and terrifying beacons, they also rest on the windowsills of several cottages, there to ward off evil spirits.

A dog howls loudly. The noise lifts itself into the air but is inaudible, overshadowed by the noise coming from inside. The chatter of people and singing, some of the words and sentences are slurred because of the ale and the potcheen that have been flowing since the beginning of the evening: the first year since the end of the war, that seems reason enough to celebrate.

The dog pushes the door with its paw and enters the large room that during the last two years of war held the meetings of the Women’s Institute. The room itself, with its red brick walls and wooden timber, is flooded with golden light - warm and welcoming and packed with people - and the night and cold are outside, far away, and the iron on the door makes people feel safe.

As the song says: _Bhí móran daoine uasal ann, bhí tuatanaigh na h-Alban ann._

In a corner young boys and girls are bobbing for apples, the lucky ones who manage to get one, peel it with care only to toss the long strip over their shoulder, eager to see its shape and discover the first letter of their spouse’s name. Apples, symbol of immortality, but hazelnuts too: They represent wisdom and are roasted near the fire in pairs; One named after the person roasting them and the other for the person they desire, any nut roasted quietly foretells a good match.

It’s a night to take shelter from the sìthichean.

It’s a night to honour the dead.

It seems fitting, Fitz thinks as he looks himself around, to celebrate the dead and commemorate them after the massacre of the past four years.

The beginning of winter is a time of death in nature, it’s a time for those poor, shivering and hungry ghosts to take shelter from the bare fields and the leafless woodlands to take shelter in the cottages in exchange of blessings. The souls of the dead revisit their homes and seek hospitality: There’s places set at dinner for them or by the fire, to welcome them inside. Foolish to think that the dead abandoned them when he thinks about all the people he knew and the ones he got to know, on a daily basis. They fill his head, make it difficult for him to concentrate and tie his stomach into a knot that feeds on guilt.

Whatever happens, whether the stories are real or not, it seems little compared to the immense suffering they all went through. And if it helps, not the dead but the living, to do something, to imagine them at peace and happy for those who survived, then so be it. Maybe the only thing they need to know is that childhood friends, sons and acquaintances are better off and found peace at last.

Fitz looks at his cup of ale on the table next to him, the liquid inside it oscillating, the surface crisp. His hands are visibly shaking, almost violently so, just as he thought that his mind and strength were coming back, that he was fit and ready to go back to work. He clenches his fists, his nails digging into the tender flesh of his palm, the pain grounding him and distracting him, and hides them behind his back, looking away.

There’s frost on the glass panels, in the corner, a white and geometrical form. A small breeze and cold filter through the window: Back in the trenches unbelievably cold and shivering. Noises and screams, his head feeling as if it was about to explode and something not far away from him going off - a whistling and piercing sound, almost deafening, the whole world shaking and earth and dust rising. He closes his eyes, squeezes them shut, and takes a deep breath before exhaling sharply.

A room not so different from the one he’s in now, albeit smaller and much more dustier. A knock on the door and 0-9 Smith stumbling in covered in blood, falling on top of him. And surely to goodness, none of them had actually recognized him.

“You’ll get all sticky.”

A familiar voice, Hunter's, distorted by horror and numbness.

“Fitz!”

Hunter’s voice is distant, barely audible over some cheers. Real.

“I say, are you alright, mate?”

Fitz opens his eyes and blinks twice as reality starts to settle in.

“Yes,” he croaks and manages a forced smile. “Quite alright.”

For a moment he looks at Hunter’s understanding face then his gaze lands on the golden wedding ring he’s wearing. It catches the light of the fireplace, the fire inside crackling and blazing, and looks yellower and newer, hardly scratched. Fitz scoffs, he never wore it in France, a desperate attempt to leave the past behind him.

“'S i Fitz, 'si Fitz a rinn a' bhanais” sing-songs Hunter. “Fitz, 's i Fitz a rinn a bhanais ainmeil.”

Fitz sighs. “Are you ever going to stop singing that or what? You don't even know what you're saying.”

"Fitz, it was Fitz, it was Fitz who had the wedding. Fitz, it was Fitz who had the famous wedding." Hunter pauses. "You translated it yourself at your wedding."

“You’ve been looking at that bloody thing all night tonight.” Hunter pauses, looking at his friend. “Where’s your wife, Fitz?”

“Somewhere.” He shrugs. “It’s all rather unfortunate, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“This whole marriage business. I went to war sure that I’d get killed and set her free. Me coming back wasn’t part of the plan.” He pauses, memories flooding his brain. “Why did you-”

“But does it have to be unfortunate? We came back, we’re not in bloody France anymore. We’re- You said that if you-”

“I know what I said, Hunter.”

“Listen, we’re…”

“Healing?” asks Fitz.

The question sounds hopeful, but they both know that that is what it is: Hope. There’s no grain of truth in such a small and easily pronounced word. No hope and no way to die. No hope and a well-meant attempt to go on with their lives.

A massacre. A carnage. Such little humanity and such small and weak animals. The rain soaking their clothes. The loud noises. The incredible amounts of explosive that armies threw at each other. Shells making continuous noise, sometimes like an enormous machine breaking apart; Whistling towards you only to crumble, screw cap flies off, hurtling through the air, screaming. The crescendos, like express trains, only faster. Tearing calico and double cracks. And those goddamn shovels against the wall.

Fitz saw a goldcrest that morning. Heard a goldcrest before seeing it. The fright of his life, his breakfast back in his throat. A laugh seemed called for. He had not managed it.

“Alive.” Hunter stops. “We survived, that has to be enough. Fitz, you have to talk to Jemma, discuss this marriage business. Alistair’s dead, he cannot touch you, and if married life is that hideous, you could agree on getting a divorce. You didn’t, did you-”

Fitz shakes his head.

He remembers Jemma walking into his room, sneaking under the covers, the night before his departure for France. He remembers kissing her, gently and with infinite hesitation, his hands slowly raising her nightgown only to realize what he was doing. Only to realize that she was probably doing it because she felt pity for him and didn’t want to send him away inexperience. One last happy memory.

It never crossed his mind that their marriage isn’t valid and never was because they never consummated it. Even more embarrassing than the memory of sending her away with cold and uncaring words, is the awareness that he could never divorce her. Their marriage as complicated and absurd as it is, so much as to feel like a conundrum, is something he wants to succeed and sometimes it feels as if Jemma wants the same thing. She could have left him years ago: She’s independent and has her own money.

They could be there, happy and at ease, instead of constantly tiptoeing around each other, always deferring and agreeing so as not to raise any argument.

“So people really do sleep in separate rooms, that’s where it’s at,” jokes Hunter.

“How are things with Bobbi?” asks Fitz, abruptly changing the subject.

“Jolly well nice. Cracking. I can assure you that the two of us do not sleep in different beds.”

Fitz laughs and Hunter soon joins him.

“How’s Jemma, Fitz? I didn’t see her tonight or in the past three days.”

“You know how she is, doesn’t believe in stuff like this. Doesn’t care.” He pauses and rearranges his posture to imitate Jemma's. Then, he says, “I am Jemma Anne Simmons and I'm too posh to lower myself to such distinctive and non-scientific beliefs.”

Hunter wheezes. The ale that comes out of his nostrils lands on Fitz’s jumper.

“Christ, that’s disgusting!” He yells. “You should have seen her face the other evening when I told her that I’d go and see the offering to Seonaidh with my little cousins.”

They both snort, a sound that makes them smile. Too much time since they were last allowed to talk so foolishly, to have fun, to take their minds off things. Fitz feels young again, like he felt before the war. A feeling to hold on to, ephemeral and feeble, it slips away from his ever so quickly.

“My name is Jemma Anne Simmons and I know every plant and herb that-”

“Fitz, stop,” says Hunter between his breath.

“Grows on the heath.”

“No, I beg you, do go on.” Jemma’s voice is loud and clear. “I’d love to hear what I’m going to say next.”

It feels as if the whole world freezes as the three of them look at each other - awkwardly and daringly, defiantly even.

Jemma looks upset, emotions stirring beneath all the Englishness as if she finally decided to be honest for the first time in her years. A glimpse of the real Jemma or the person she could have been, free of conditioning: he often wondered how it would feel, how it would be. It makes him feel awful, such an unabridged showing of her thoughts and feelings, so similar to her letters with the downside that here and now, in a room full of people, his actions and words can be misinterpreted by the shift of a sound: his words equally playful and offensive.

It pushes them back years, to the early days, to that same confusion and anger. All Fitz can think about is taking her hand, his fingers reaching hers, skin resting on skin, and saying I’m sorry. Tha gaol agam ort. Tha gràdh mo chridhe agam ort. I’m sorry for everything. But why apologize and be honest about his feelings when she’s never been honest about hers? It’s not his bloody fault they’re married. A fine agreement, according to everyone. That famous wedding between Leopold James Fitz and Jemma Anne Simmons, a union of money and prestige and in such precarious times an alliance that granted stability.

Their marriage makes him uncomfortable most of the time because Jemma is Jemma and he feels- something. And the France with all the letters and their ever so precious friendship. All the honesty and the trust and the openness destroyed the moment- No, he must not think of it. He went to war just to avoid her, partially, maybe, such great lengths just to not having to see her and now there’s him - yearning and longing and probably in love - and Jemma who sleeps next to him at night, her body close to his, calling him back from all the nightmares.

From one extreme to another with nothing in between and the bloody and wretched war ruining everything. Now it feels as if all he ever does in his life is to please people around him: his father, with his requests and commands and all the consequences; his mother, with her judging looks implying that he wasn’t trying hard enough; and Jemma.

All he can think of saying is, you weren’t there. You don’t know.

“I’m going to leave you two alone,” says Hunter and discreetly walks away.

“Jemma-”

“I wanted to tell you that I’m going home,” she says, cutting him off. “For what it is worth, I- I know that I’m a great deal less than perfect, Fitz, but I am not insensible of feeling. And tonight I thought- I think that it was better when you thought nothing of me at all, now that you think so badly of me. What is this Fitz? Because I thought- I thought we were friends.”

“We are.”

“Surely to goodness, it doesn’t look like that. Am I a source of amusement to you?”

“Of course not,” he replies. Each harsh and angry word creates a sharp pain at his heart.

“No wonder you go to such lengths to be offensive and hurtful,” she says, talking over him and looking away. “It’s as if you don’t-”

He remains silent and looks to the ground. Why is it that whenever he has a chance of happiness he seems unable to accept the fact and lingers so long that the moment ends as quickly as it appeared? Jemma’s eyes look watery, though she might as well be tired, exhausted. And those letters, their precious and honest correspondence, stands between them: it bounds them as much as it distances them. All those careful formalities. Every dearest and yours sincerely and truly and affectionately he’s ever written on paper, carefully folded and sent to her from the continent. He meant and still means every word for he’s not one of those precise imbeciles.

And then in London- if anyone deserves to be insulted and ridiculed it’s him.

“Forgive me,” he mutters under his breath.

“It’s as if you don’t care about any of-”

“I care, Jemma. I care about, well, you.” He pauses. To take her hand now and tell her the truth, tell her why he never went back to Scotland on leave and stayed in London with the battalion of pals. “I-”

Laughter explodes inside the room and a couple of young girls pass by them, chattering about the future. Young people and a reasonable chance of enjoying their lives. He envies them - jealousy a green-eyed monster that devours him alive. Sometimes it’s all he can think about.

“Let me take you home,” he says.

“You don’t have to. I know the way and I should hate to-”

“I’d love to.” He cracks a tentative smile, the corners of his mouth slowly raise and his features soften. He feels his heart beat hard in his chest as he grabs for his coat and says, “Come on, everyone knows that you shouldn’t walk out alone tonight.”

“I thought you could, you just had to turn your clothes inside-out.” She stops and her voice softens when she adds, “I’m not going to do that, Fitz.”

“Of course not, I’ve got iron and salt to keep the evil spirits at bay. We're going to arrive home safely.”

Jemma rolls her eyes. “Alright then, you win, we’re friends again.”

“Let’s go then.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *BBC lady voice* this chapter contains some scenes which some <strike>viewers</strike> readers may find upsetting.
> 
> unbeta'd.

Things were easy with Hunter for they had a mutual understanding and an agreement not to mention any of the things witnessed between the beginning and the end of the war. They knew about such horrors and had been at each other's side for the majority of those excruciating and never-ending 51 months. The memories of those months spent in hell hung in the air between them and never left them and the silence regarding such dreadful matters could be reduced to three simple words: _ I was there_. The whole damn time, really. Hunter knew what it meant to feel devoid of all feelings, estranged from one's own self, one foot in the present moment and the other in the trenches.

Things aren't easy with Jemma and, surely to goodness, he'd like to try, even though in the past year he failed to do so. With Jemma everything requires an explanation: ever since that day at the station, every single one of his gestures has been met by wondering and curious glances. Why this, Fitz? Why that, Fitz? There's no escape from such unspoken questions, they stand between them and make it difficult for him to be himself, make it difficult to forget and be himself again.

He looks at her as they walk down the pebbled path that leads to the main road. Jemma Simmons and her curiosity. Jemma Simmons and her never-ending eagerness to help. How did it start and what came first? All he knows now is that he spent the last year trying to shy away from her questions: He leaves in the morning before she has a chance to get up or spends hours in bed pretending to be asleep, until he hears the front door closing, indication enough that she left to go to work, and he gets up and looks at his reflection in the mirror, judging himself silently. He spends the day outside, at his mother, on one of the benches that overlook the shore, at work. He spends the days avoiding Jemma and trying to find a way to step back into his life, trying to find some of the motivation that once possessed him, trying not to get angry at himself and the world, losing his patience over the smallest of things. He spends his days trying to avoid drinking tea in front of people, lest they see his hands trembling and realize that his mind and strength aren't any closer to come back than they were six months ago. 

"The moon looks lovely tonight," says Jemma, pointing at the full moon above them. Her voice sounds humorous, but there's a hint of anger that overshadows such playful teasing as she goes on and says, "Are you going to tell me that we should fear the attack of a pack of werewolves too?"

"_Acallam na Senórach_," he replies, trying to make an effort. "_Tales of the Elders of Ireland_, that's the most important text in the Fenian Cycle. Eight thousand lines, prosimetric, Middle Irish: It's the longest surviving work of original medieval Irish literature."

"I know."

"Three wolf-bitches come from the Cave of Crúachu each year and destroy whatever rams and sheep we have. Before we can do anything they retreat back into the Cave of Crúachu-” he quotes. For a moment he considers telling her that the last sentence is indication enough of his mind and memory coming back, but he resists the urge to do so. “Or something like that anyway.”

"I know."

"Still, _ Acallam na Senórach _tells the story of how three female werewolves emerge from the cave of Cruachan, an Otherworld portal, each Samhain. They kill livestock and when Cas Corach plays his harp, they take human form and the Fianna- An Fhèinne... The Fhèinne, a small, semi-independent warrior band... A warrior Caílte then slays them with a spear."

"Fitz," says Jemma. "I know."

He ignores her, lost in his thoughts, and adds, "I used to like stories like these. Now, I just-"

"I read some of your books," she tells him, cutting him off. "While you were away, I read some of your books. I hope you don't mind."

"Mind?" he asks. "No, I don't mind. We're married, aren't we?"

"Hardly."

"Those books are yours too." His voice breaks down and he looks away, pretending not to have noticed her accusing tone.

For a while, they walk in silence, down the gravel roads, their steps heavy and the gravel crunching under their feet, small clouds of dust rising as soon as their heel lifts from the ground. The sky is clouding and quickly so, the pallid and silver moonlight gives the village an eerie look that makes it believable to think that any moment now three werewolves could appear along with an army of fairies, ready to kill and bring havoc: But why believe when the truth is but one, humans are capable of much more distraction than any supernatural creature ever will.

Fitz feels watched by the carved lanterns that rest on the windowsills, silent and grotesque spectators to the violent silence between him and Jemma, a motionless audience to that failure of a marriage. To think that it used to be about their respective lives and conditioning, that, perhaps, they could have overcome with time and patience. But it's the war now or the ghost of it and all the memories and things he doesn't want to think about or discuss, not with her, not when this is supposed to be some safe space - two worlds, he cannot allow one to stain the other.

"Would you mind telling me what happened to you?" asks Jemma abruptly, her words sudden and unexpected.

He looks at her in bewilderment. Part of him wants to remain silent, another feels the irresistible urge to tell her everything - it'll either drive her away, make her leave, or bring them closer. That night, that life-changing night, there's a before and an after: Never such innocence again.

"I know something happened to you, Fitz." She pauses and exhales sharply. "You don't live with someone under the same room and- I know there's a bottle of laudanum behind some of your books."

"That. I take it for the pain, for the memories, for the warmth."

"The warmth?"

"I'd have told you eventually," he says.

"About your bottle of dope?"

"I hardly touch it nowadays," he replies. His voice sounds apologetic and the whole sentence sounds like a lie. "It makes things worse."

"You know you can talk to me, Fitz. I'm not a stranger to horror, no matter what you may think of me," she tells him as she stretches out her hand only to quickly retrieve it long before her fingers even get the chance to touch his arm.

There's something else she wants to say, her mouth already half-opened, but he cannot let her speak. What if she tells him that the war is over and has been over for almost a year and he had to start acting accordingly? 

October, a year on, the war is over. Eight of the most despicable and untrue words in the English language, the only possible reply to such a silly affirmation is cùm do theanga. Shut up. Because the war isn't over. Not for people like him, or all those families eating their hearts out because one of their boys got killed and all that remains is a khaki uniform and a bundle of letters. Not for all the wives and girlfriends and beaux with their short and cold telegrams announcing tragedy. Not for him whose mind won't stop wandering back to the trenches, whose hands won't stop shaking, and his nightmares and the memory of the sound of those shovels against that goddamn wall. And Jemma, naive and innocent Jemma, his friend Jemma, his wife Jemma, could say surely to goodness, it's over. Thank heaven, it's over. Without making it real or true for the war wasn't over - not even now, in October, a year on.

"You'll get sticky," he says.

"What?"

"That's what Hunter said. Only it wasn't Hunter or it was, but it didn't sound like him at all." He pauses. "You'll get sticky."

Such a simple and well-formulated sentence haunts his dreams. Cold and empty eyes staring at him. Their faces distorted into a grimace of horror. Frozen in time, unsure what to do. And in that moment or the day after, when they started to pretend that that night had never happened, that they were fit, that they were well, that they weren't at wits end, he had told Hunter that if he'd make it back, he'd tell Jemma not about the war for who cared about it, it was better to leave it behind, but about his feelings and he'd ask her, plainly and directly, for a second chance. 

Tha iad ag iomairt an làmhan a chéile. They understand each other, the most amazing discovery of all that made second chances possible. And then, that night and those awful months that have yet to end. And that day, at the station, when Jemma picked him up, he had looked at her and thought_, we understand each other, _ and he had smiled despite his watery eyes, as seven magpies flew over them, bringers of news of fair and foul, foreshadowing the secret never told.

"There was something on my boot once. It looked like mud. I was feverish and freezing and tired. I was feverish and it looked like mud, but it wasn't mud, it was blood and it was sticky." He pauses. "Now, I can't stand the thought of getting my rain boots dirty."

"Fitz-"

He ignores her and crosses his arms, tugging his coat as he tries to keep himself warm and not let himself go, and turns right instead of left. Jemma follows him in silence, saying nothing about him taking the long way home. Time to talk and time to think about what to do next, the open-air gives them more freedom than their cottage ever did: They both know how these sort of things go between them, the safety of their own house is oppressive rather than welcoming and they'll lose their courage as soon as they step over the threshold.

"On one occasion, something burst near us in the dark, the whole world was shaking. You cannot possibly conceive how it feels to be in one of those huts and- It doesn't... I don't remember what we were doing, probably discussing sonnets or foreign languages, someone said that you shouldn't let yourself go or you'll go further than you wish. I remember the explosions and the yelling, maybe there were trumpets, and then someone walked in and his face- part of his face- his eyes."

A wave of nausea hits him and he bends forwards, ready to puke. But nothing is coming out of his mouth, his dinner safe in his stomach, other than some spit. Fitz takes a series deep breath, waiting for it to pass, his hands resting on his knees.

"He walked in, 0-9 Smith, that is. He walked in and saluted and his face- He fell on top of me and Hunter said, you'll get all sticky. There were pieces of- pieces... After that, no, we were all unfit for duty and pretended it wasn't so. You should have seen Smith, surely to goodness none of us actually recognized that chap. Smith asked for a leave that same afternoon, to go and visit his mother and get married to his girlfriend, I refused to give it to him. He died because of me."

"You know that's not true," says Jemma, stepping closer to him.

"But it is! Don't you see? Had I granted him that leave, he'd be alive today," he all but yells. 

Jemma remains silent.

"We- The War Office transferred us. They wanted me in command of the 19th Division's horse-lines, going to the trenches to take over as second-in-command of the 6th Battalion, Glamorganshire," he says. "While there I thought- something went off. Hunter realized it before everyone else, luck I guess, and dragged me away. The blast made us fall one on top of the other and bits- I kept screaming, yelling. I was hysterically crying."

"I don't want to listen to you," says Jemma, her voice breaking down and coming out in a loud sob.

He looks at her in disbelief and blinks twice. "You asked me, now you have to listen to it."

His voice is harsher and more reproachful than he wanted it to be. It's not her fault, he wants to add, it's his. Such matters cause discomfort, but he needs to let it all out and maybe find, if only momentarily, some peace of mind. To have a stranger, someone, cold and indifferent, untouched and unaffected, hear about such things may help him realize that his pain is as justified as his anger. 

He's pushing her to her limits because he needs to open up about it and let it all out - unabridged, no embellished and heroic version of it. It feels as if he cannot stop, as if a dam broke and now the words are finally allowed to run freely with nothing standing against them and holding them back. And if he tells her everything, to the last detail, maybe she'll realize that he feels, that he's capable of feeling, and that he feels too much.

"When you came to the station that day, you said- You said. You said it was a miracle I survived."

Tears in his eyes, he had been so happy to see her. The smile on his face had vanished as soon as she said _ it's a miracle you survived. _

"It is," she says. Then with more emphasis, she repeats herself, trying to keep her voice steady. "It is."

He shakes his head back and forth as if to silence her. All he wants to do is yell at her, at the world, at himself, one long and uninterrupted primordial scream to let out all the frustration and resentment and self-hatred: He signed up to get away from her, thinking it would be a Blitzkrieg, oblivious that he'd spend four years in hell and lose himself in the process.

"That day at the station," he goes on. "We argued in front of everyone and I didn't care. I didn't care because all I could think of was you saying that it was a miracle I survived."

"Fitz, I don't want to hear this part." Her voice is a feeble whisper that comes out in a series of sobs, her whole body shaking. 

For a moment he considers stepping closer to her and hold her close, her head resting on his chest, but this honesty so sudden and overwhelming is thrilling, a thrill close to a sense of self-destruction and he cannot hold it back.

"Please, I can't- Please don't tell me there's more than this." She sniffles.

He turns around, fat and hot tears silently rolling down his cheeks. She reaches for him, fumbling and desperate gestures as she tries to cup his cheeks - a gentle reminder that he is home, he is welcomed, he is alive - but he steps away. Fitz was discovering himself to be one of those people who didn't handle their personality very well and his deepest fear, to turn out to be like his father and hurt every single person around him, seemed real, possible, tangible. Better be alone than hurt those around him. Better be alone than hurt, well, her.

"After that day, I was so fucking close and Hunter-"

"Fitz, please."

"I wish that bomb had hit me. I wish Hunter hadn't realized what was going on." He pauses, wiping the tears away and cleaning his nose with the sleeve of his jacket. "I wake up every day wishing I had died in France. And I don't know what to do, Jemma, I really don't know! I never thought I'd get this far and I wish- I wish I hadn't come back at all."

"I can't do this, I'm sorry."

He exhales sharply. "Before that day, there were our letters and I thought- I used to think that coming back would be the solution to all my problems. If only I could... If only I could go back to my life, then all would be well. And now I'm here and I can't stand the thought, I can't... I hate- this! I hate the nightmares and the memories and not being able to live. And there's you! I want to live, Jemma, but not like this. Before all of this I had-"

Had what? A sense of safety. The feeling of being protected and secure and home. 

"Bugger," he says. "Shit."

"What?"

"I forgot. Shit, I forgot! I have to go back, but you go home.” He takes a couple of deep breaths and looks away, the idea of seeing her reaction is unbearable and he can’t have this argument again, They’ve exhausted it. He needs it to be done. “The torch of burning fir, I forgot it. I need-”

“Fitz, Fitz, calm down.”

“No." His breathing quickens and his heart pounds hard in his chest. “I, um, I need it. I need it to feel safe. And I forgot. Please, don’t make that face-”

“I’m not making any face, Fitz.”

“You are!” He pauses. Not that he blames her, he has a hard time keeping up with his thoughts too. “You must think me very foolish.”

“No!”

“For the hearth fire,” he says. His thoughts go staccato, run wild, as his emotions roll and rapid inside of him. “You go- You go home, I’ll come as soon as I’m done.”

To douse the old fire and bringing in the new one, they’ve done it for centuries and he won’t be the one to stop. Not now. He can’t afford it. 

A feeling of dread washes over him.

“Can I not come with you?” she asks pleadingly. 

“Not with that attitude, no.” He pauses, quite aware that the only person with an attitude is him. “Are you afraid that I’ll-”

She shakes her head but doesn’t look at him, it gives her away. 

What else does she want to say? That she won’t sing any requiems in case? 

"Can I wait for you at home?" asks Jemma. "I'd rather- I came to tell you something tonight, I'd like you to hear it. So, Fitz, may I wait up for you."

He nods. "It won't take long. I'll be back, I promise."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.

His actions are careful and attentive as he lights the heath fire with the torch of burning fir, the one he went back for, the one he carried sunwise for protection. The flames inside the fireplace are hesitant at first and Fitz feels a hint of panic slowly rising inside him as he watches those shy sparks and trembling flames that look ready to burn out any second. He needs safety. He needs the fire to burn and crack, to bring him hope and peace of mind. 

Who cares if it's all nonsense? He, for one, thinks it's lovely that the burning fir or turf are carried around homes and fields to protect them. Such a simple and easily forgotten tradition brightens the future and brings the whole community together. It gives away a reassuring sense of belonging and tradition. It binds past and future together in a unique and interesting way - the former won't be forgotten, but the latter is more important. 

Fitz grabs the poker and moves the wood around, paying attention not to extinguish the fire. For a moment it feels as if it won't work, but then, suddenly, the flames start to crackle and blaze, growing in size and flooding the room with golden light. Shadows dancing, he looks at the spectacle of colours a little while longer before he gets up and puts the poker back.

"Are you feeling slightly better?" asks Jemma.

Fitz turns his head around and sees her standing at the door, leaning her body against the frame. She's still wearing the clothes of that evening, but the cardigan is replaced by one of his jumpers that hangs loosely on her frame.

"Did it help, restoring the heath fire?"

"I don't know." He pauses. "And it did, thank you. How long have you been standing there?"

"For a while. I didn't want to-" She pauses and looks away. "I know that- I want you to know that you can do whatever makes you feel at peace, that's the one thing that matters."

Silence falls between them, comforting rather than violent, interrupted by the storm raging outside. There's the sound of the rattling window blinds and the rain hitting hard against the roof and every other surface, a constant and rhythmical ticking, like the noise made by a typewriter. Nature in all its power. Nature in all is violence. Unrestrained and a force to be reckoned with as people are at home, alone or in good company, safe. Wind howling and thunder rumbling, louder and louder, the storm close, above them: It's a much more fitting weather, it sounds like havoc, it sounds like chaos and destruction and the doors of the Otherworld opening allowing armies of supernatural beings and their horses to ride through. Darkness is the universe in this night when everything's possible, when old legends sound true and feel real, no longer stories told to children at bedtime.

"One time, a couple of years ago, one of your little cousins tried to fool me."

"What?"

"Tried to convince me that that oatmeal stuff was called urine of the isles."

"An fhuarag anns na h-Eileanan?" he asks. "Seòrsa brochain min-choirce le uachdair, uisge no bainne. It's just oatmeal with cream, water or milk."

"I know." She laughs and nervously fidgets with her hands. "Your mother told her to stop humouring me."

Jemma steps into the room and ever so slowly makes her way to him, past the sofa and to the fireplace, until they both stand there, facing each other. For a moment he considers taking her hand and tell her that he is quite aware of the fact that he clings to the most desperate and ridiculous things to get some peace and quiet, to trick himself into thinking that he is finally safe, that he'll make it. Carrying some burning fir around the house may do nothing in the long run, but he's not interested in it: All he cares about is making it through the night. He'll find something else in the morning.

"I don't think you to be foolish, Fitz. Not once in my life did I think badly of you, especially now," she says, depriving him of a chance to speak. 

"We had each other wrong once," says Fitz and smiles sadly.

It's not what he wants to say, but it has to do. He fears another argument, He fears that familiar look on Jemma's face - horror mixed with pity, defencelessness mixed with confusion - whenever they are forced to spend more than five minutes in each other's company. He fears her inability to act and the quickness with which a sentence turns into one big misunderstanding. Above all, he fears her telling him, loud and clear, without breaking into a sob, that she can't do any of this, she can't listen, can't talk to him and that it's stupid to even try and understand each other when it always goes wrong and they part feeling more miserable than before.

His thoughts go staccato and his emotions roll and rapid inside him as they once again stand there, tiptoeing around each other, deferring and always agreeing. They go to such lengths to avoid the matters they so desperately want to discuss and take such pains to avoid another row, their voices softening instead of rising, to avoid hurting the other and speaking harsh and angry words that would reveal the most terrifying truths.

"Doesn't it feel possible that we had each other wrong yet again?"

If she is to agree, if she agrees to play this game of pretending, then they can keep this neutral and civil and pretend the rest of the evening even happened. And if they are to forget, then his secret will be safe with her and he has to be sure that it will be, that she won't betray him and give him away, that she'll give him time to come to terms with what happened and find a way to live the rest of his life on his own terms. 

Jemma would never betray him, wouldn't she? He'd swear it on their friendship if they still can define themselves this way if their effortless relationship still stands despite the many changes and mistakes. Comforting and reassuring, something to hold on to, something worth fighting for. He had put such an effort into making it better, making it more solid and stable and lasting by reducing all the strains with each letter he sent her. And maybe, maybe, he likes to imagine that she did the same, that she had seen it for what it was - beauty in a time of misery and darkness, although the latter overshadowed the former.

"I behaved like a low cad as of late," he tells her. "I had- I'm sorry, Jemma. I just don't know how to do any of this."

"You know," she says, ignoring him. "Tonight I went looking for, well, you. A long time ago you told me that you liked this, all of it. You said it was the thing you missed the most when you were at- And it's the first time since the end of the war, I wanted to spend it with you, try to see what you saw in it. I wanted to say that it's nights like these that make me want to believe."

"Believe in what?"

"All of it. In iron." She pauses and looks away, playing with the sleeve of her jumper as if removing some invisible lint. "You never gave me a chance, Fitz. You never-"

"You mean it?" he asks, ignoring the last part of her sentence. Too unsure, he doesn't want to know what she's talking about. All that matters is that maybe, maybe, she likes it here, she understands and feels at home. Home, a place worth staying. And if it is they have time to figure it out and reach for the larger thought.

Thunder rolls and the whole world seems to be shaking as the light of a lightning filters through the closed window blinds. Fitz jumps and closes his eyes, taking deep breaths and waiting for it to pass. He focuses on the warmth coming from the fireplace and Jemma's voice, two things that weren't there when he was in one of those wretched huts or in the trenches.

"I don't know," says Jemma. "It's all very- I know I didn't believe in it when I first came here, that much I can tell you."

"Everyone knows that." He jokes with his eyes still closed. "You weren't exactly trying to hide it, were you?"

Those first couple of years, before their marriage, though in hindsight his father and her parents must have had an agreement even then, so you and naive! So uncaring! He missed those people, himself most of all, their dreams and their hopes. They had fun, such terrific fun, in an unrestricted kind of way. He remembers her looking lost and confused and sceptical, always saying that such things could easily be proved wrong.

"Yeah." She pauses. "But I also felt terribly homesick, there were days I couldn't think of anything else and I just wanted to talk about it with someone. I suppose it came out wrong most of the time."

"It was a long time ago, people don't care about any of it now. And it's not like any of us blindly believes in all of it."

"No?"

"No! It brings us together and we celebrate. I like the mystery and the idea behind it all, looking to the future and caring about love."

He understands people's scepticism, he understands Jemma and it doesn't matter if it was about homesickness or not. This is how these sort of things go: there's a rational and an irrational explanation for everything, and he likes to believe in both. There’s the games and there's the time spent in the company of people he's known all his life. There's that feeling of belonging and the talking and all the other little things that make the night so special. There's the importance given to the future, where it's all at, and the distance from the past, from France and from his father before that. It provides him with the same giddiness and enthusiasm he felt for the turn of the century when he had looked at his mother and announced that the twentieth century would be the century of healing.

"I was quite insufferable when I first got here, wasn't I?"

"Quite?"

"Alright then, a lot."

"Ah."

"Don't  _ ah _ me."

"Why not?" He smirks. "Would you like me to repeat some of the choicest remarks you made? Because they live in my mind as fresh as on the day they were made."

Jemma shakes her head. "No, I remember. And I also remember being terribly upset about having to come here to practice instead of doing in the city. Miles away from home, this was like a foreign country."

"And yet you always acted like a professional. You helped us when we needed it. You did your rounds and helped people, did your job without complaining. Which didn't make it easy, really, it didn't make not liking you easy. I spent months trying to find something clever enough to say to impress you, but you always looked so unimpressed, bothered. And ever so smart."

"That's not true! I mumbled a lot and I sent such ugly letters to one of my friends." She pauses, taking his hand. "I remember feeling like a fish out of water. And you!"

"We used to make fun of your accent," he blurts out and blushes. "One of my cousins did a spot-on impression of you."

"Who says I didn't make fun of you?"

"Touché." He pauses. "No one cares anymore, they like you. You're part of this place now. And you never left even though you could have."

"Fitz?"

"Yes?"

"I remember- When I first arrived, I thought you looked incredibly dashing and sheepish. And you were so quiet and pasty, but you weren't quiet around people, just around me. It's the same now, Hunter- Am I the problem?"

"God, no! You never were or maybe- Not now, definitely not now. You've been nothing but extraordinary the whole time and I didn't, don't- I can't." He pauses, trying to make sense of his thoughts. "I don't know how to act around you, I don't know how to let you in and I want to! I always wanted to! And when you first came here, you were so high and mighty."

Even now as he looks at her. Between the saddle and the ground she could swear never to have done a dishonourable action, how could anyone live with that? And it feels as if there's a chasm between them, growing wider and wider each day, ready to swallow them whole. And all the requests and the isolation and the misunderstandings. All the nightmares and the fears and the accusing silences.

"Were you ashamed of us? Of living here?" asks Fitz.

"Are you ashamed of being married to me?" asks Jemma. Their voices overlap and before he can go on, she cuts him off and says, "You looked sick, ready to throw up."

"Didn't you? We were being forced. It was a surprise to see you walk down the aisle."

"No one's forcing us now, Fitz. Is there someone else?"

"Of course not! How could you ask such a tomfool question?"

"You never came home. You stopped- I'm not talking about what you said this evening, I'm talking about the last couple of years." She sniffs. "Why? What are you afraid of, Fitz?"

"I told you. Life, all of it. Not being able to-" He stops, suddenly remembering her grievous voice and her urgency. "Are you here to tell me that we should divorce? Because I won't make a fuss about it, no need to avoid the matter. If that's what you want then- I owe you that much."

"No! Why on earth would you think that?"

Because they've been talking so easily about the old days, drawing a line between past and present. It's all bittersweet and gloomy. Come to think of it, it sounds like a goodbye. They've had a riot and tried only to fail miserably, there's no need to keep going on with this parade and not part ways. Let them go on with their lives, live happily rather than be trapped in such a miserable marriage. No one's forcing them, she said it herself, and he can't find the clarity of judgement to speak to her most of the time anyway. 

"Because," he says and takes a deep breath. "Because we never were on best terms and I- Jemma, I am no fool and I'm not the person you married all those years ago. I'm not even sure I'm still the person who wrote you those letters. It can be quick and painless, but let us part friends and on good terms. I'd wish you every happiness, everything life can bring."

"I don't care about getting a divorce."

"Why? We're hardly married and-"

"There's more to marriage than sex, Fitz."

"You don't say. But even without that, without the sex, I'm not- I'd rather know you were fully living your life than have you stay here because of what? Pity? The things I said, I shouldn't have told you about them. You'll take them as a reason to-"

"Will you please shut up!" she cuts him off. "I love you, Fitz."

"What if I told you that I didn't?"

"You'd have to be a good liar to pull that off. Are you a good liar?" She pauses. "I think you're a rotten one, you always were. You are now. You say you're fine, but you're not and consequently spend your days trying to avoid me. I can give you time and space, I know I've been rather insistent and- Don't cut me loose, Fitz, please."

"I pushed you away."

"And even if you do not love me- Do you like me, Fitz? Do you trust me?"

He nods.

"I want to make you happy. I want to walk through life with you." She stops and walks to the sofa, sitting down. For a moment she wipes her eyes with her hands and then gestures at him to take place beside him. Then she goes on and says, "While we were writing to each other I thought- I thought, I'd marry him again if we weren't already married. That thought still stands. I know that I don't always make it easy and I know that we've had our fair share of disagreements throughout the years, we'll have more. But I want you to know that I'm here if you need me."

He looks at her and thinks of the last couple of months: Jemma sleeping beside him, holding him close, always there to wake up if he woke up. He thinks of the night before his departure - differently, leaving out his bias and view of himself. It is true then, that they got so fucking close. The day of the Christmas truce, high on hope, he made a deal with himself: if the war was going to end soon, he'd go home to Jemma and tell her that not a day had passed without him thinking of her; And then at home, he'd ask her if he could kiss her and whether or not she wanted to go upstairs and maybe sleep together, have sex, fuck to save the world from some of the corporals, not out of pity or duty, but because they liked each other, loved each other, thought the world of the other person. But the war didn't stop and he changed and looked at things differently, sabotaging himself more often than not.

"Do you mean it?" he asks, his voice shaking. He remembers thinking that there was no chance, that such a hasty and arranged marriage could only bring heartbreak and regret.

Jemma nods and laughs and takes his hand. 

"Fitz," she whispers under her breath as she leans forwards until their foreheads are almost touching. "Here it comes, I love you."

Fitz cups her cheeks, his thumbs stroking her skin ever so gently. 

“Are you going to tell me that there is no chance?”

He shakes his head. “I was thinking about something along the lines of  _ I feel the same way. _ ”

“So you’re not going to lie?”

“No, I’m not. I love you, Jemma," he says with slightly more emphasis. "Can I kiss you?”

She nods and he kisses her tenderly, patiently and yearning, with infinite and gentle delegations. They take their time, hesitate, laugh, pour their feelings into that one kiss and know that it’s not alright, just slightly better. The future looks a little bit less bleak and gloomy than it did an hour before and that has to be enough.

“Will you take me to bed, husband?” asks Jemma as they part. “We don’t have to do anything if you don’t feel like-”

“You mean it?”

“Yes, I do. I told you in one of those letters that I was looking forward to all sorts of things.” She laughs. “And we can go upstairs and sleep, but for the first time in a year I’d like to go to bed with you instead of sneaking in while you pretend to be sleeping.”


End file.
